


issues

by airot (airota)



Category: League of Legends
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29296332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airota/pseuds/airot
Summary: From the moment Garen meets him, he knows this will hurt.
Relationships: Garen Crownguard/Jarvan Lightshield IV
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	issues

From the moment Garen meets him, he knows this will hurt. Jarvan is his destiny--this he knows. 

Garen is a Crownguard, first and foremost. His life is to be dedicated completely, incomparably, to the crown. He is to be willing to die for the king and country, like his father and his father before him; his aunt would accept nothing less.

When he hears of his uncle’s death at the hands of a mage, Garen is filled with righteous anger and Demacian pride. He sees the fear in Lux’s eyes, how she quivers at the news, and that’s when he knows what he must do.

He is sent to the Citadel to join the army at the age of twelve, Lux trailing at his heels, begging him not to go, not yet. But he understands the sacrifices one must make for his country and leaving his home, leaving his _sister_ behind is a small one if it guarantees her safety and that of everyone else in the city.

He trains tirelessly with the other boys his age, fighting, fighting, _always_ fighting, until they were numb to the bruises and aches and pains. The satisfaction in knowing that he will one day serve his country well, that he will likely lay down his life defending his king makes it all _worth it_.

It is there that he meets his prince, his lord--the boy he would give his life for without having ever exchanged a word.

Jarvan Lightshield, fourth of his name, picks him out of all the boys to spar with. They all look at their prince in adoration, in awe, while they watch Garen with only jealousy. The chance to prove oneself against their prince is immutable, one of a kind.

They trade blows and there is a certain grace to Jarvan’s movements that Garen lacks. Where Garen has only brute force, Jarvan has only elegance and finesse. It is mesmerizing.

Inevitably, Garen loses, knocked on his ass by his future king.

“Alright, boys, back to your rooms,” the drill sergeant barks and the rest of the recruits clear the area, along with their supervisors.

Garen squints as he looks up at Jarvan who is still standing there with an outstretched hand, back to the blazing sun, sweat glistening against his tanned skin. He is _radiant_.

He takes it gratefully and Jarvan pulls him to his feet.

“Not bad,” Jarvan says, grinning. “I’m Jarvan.”

 _I know_ , he wants to say. _How could I possibly not know? You are the boy I’m supposed to protect, supposed to serve for the rest of my life. You are--you are my_ destiny.

“I’m Garen,” he says instead.

“Nice to meet you, Garen,” he says, his smile _bright_ , so bright. _How could he ever look away again?_

They walk to the barracks together and it’s not long before Jarvan is given the bunk right above his and the two become inseparable.

-

They train together always. Jarvan cares not to test his strength against the other noble sons and whenever the drill sergeant demands it, he finishes the fight, quickly and with deadly efficiency. He does not spare a second glance at anyone besides Garen and the thought sends his heart swimming through a whirlpool of emotions he doesn’t want to define.

Jarvan always wins their little spars, though not for lack of effort on Garen’s part. He is too fast, too clever for him, and Garen supposes he will always be.

The days and nights go quickly with Jarvan. The days turn into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into _years_. They spend every waking moment in each others’ presence and soon, Garen cannot imagine a life without him.

At one point, when their roommates are fast asleep, their soft snores filling the otherwise lonely silence, Jarvan whispers his name. Garen only grumbles in response, annoyed at being woken up right when he’d been falling asleep.

They are seventeen and it is their last week in the Citadel. Soon they will be shipped off to opposite edges of the Demacian empire to further their king’s interests and fight for their own personal glory. Soon, he will have to leave Jarvan behind.

“Do you think we—” he cuts himself off. “Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“What? No, what were you saying?” Jarvan doesn’t say anything for a while. “Jarvan?”

“Oh. Um. Sorry,” he stumbles over his words, anxiety filling his voice.

“You okay?” Garen says and he’s suddenly awake, wide awake.

“Do you think I’ll be a good king, one day?” he asks, voice small. It was so unlike him to speak like this, as if he were not the most fascinating person Garen’s ever had the pleasure to meet, as if he does not linger in Garen’s every thought, every dream.

“Of course,” Garen says and it comes out without hesitation, for there is no doubt in his mind that Jarvan will be the greatest king to ever grace this great white city. He will be the brightest light in what is already the beacon of Runeterra.

“You really think so?” Jarvan asks. “You’re not just saying that?”

“No I’m not just saying that, dumbass,” Garen mutters, but there is no heat behind the name. “Go to sleep, we get our assignments tomorrow morning.”

His heart hurts and his head aches at the thought. One day closer until the end.

“Okay, okay,” Jarvan hisses, but he sounds rather pleased. He doesn’t think about it until later, but he never finds out what it was exactly that Jarvan had originally wanted to say.

-

“Crownguard, Garen. Windwatch, northern border.”

His eyes widen. It is far, so far. When Jarvan looks at him, it is with fear and trepidation, but he looks away. Never in his life had he thought something would come in between him and his duty. He always strove to serve his country with pride, to bring honor to his family name and live up to his father’s legacy. But he hadn’t anticipated Jarvan.

“Lightshield, Jarvan,” the major reads. He pauses and everyone turns to their prince. “You are to report to the capital. Tomorrow, come sunrise.”

 _Tomorrow_.

-

The word echoes through his head throughout the rest of the assembly. _Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow_ . They were supposed to leave in a week. They were supposed to have six more days together, six days without training, six days to say their goodbyes. Six days to--to--to _what_?

Confess his feelings? Admit that all Garen’s ever wanted was to feel Jarvan’s lips on his, to revel in his touch, to know what his hands would feel like roaming his body? No. No, he thinks not.

Jarvan is the crown prince. Jarvan Lightshield, fourth of his name, heir to the throne. Jarvan Lightshield, destined to be married off to some beautiful princess or a wealthy heiress. Jarvan Lightshield, who has no time for distractions, for the likes of a man who cannot birth him a child, _an heir_.

And who is _he_? Garen Crownguard, first of his name, doomed to die protecting a man he loves, but cannot touch, whose heart he longs to hold. He is nothing to Jarvan.

-

“Fight me,” Jarvan says, dragging him out into the ring. The sun is setting and everyone else is crowded into the mess hall, excitedly discussing their placements and revelling in their visions of glory and fame.

“I don’t want to,” Garen says, pushing him away. He is tired. So, so tired.

“Fight me.” 

“No.”

“Fight me.” His voice has become pleading, petulant like a child’s. But they are not children anymore. They are almost of age and Garen’s about to go off to the Freljord to defend their great nation.

“ _No_.”

Jarvan throws the first punch. It is sloppy and stupid and Garen catches his wrist easily. Jarvan has always been the smarter and quicker of the two, but Garen has an inhuman strength that is yet unmatched by his prince. His friend.

“Jarvan. Stop.” It is a warning and a plea at the same time. His heart threatens to break in his chest. Garen lets go and turns back toward the mess hall.

Before he makes it to the edge of the field, Jarvan tackles him from behind, wrapping his arm around his neck in a headlock and pulling him back, drawing him in. The weight of him sends them falling backwards onto the grass and Garen quickly breaks free. He gets to his feet, another rebuke already spilling off his lips, when Jarvan comes at him again.

This time, he fights back for real and they trade blows until their bodies are slick with sweat and they’re breathless with exertion. Eventually, Jarvan leaves an opening, blatant and _stupid_ , and it’s nothing like him to do so, but Garen takes it nonetheless and it sends the two of them barrelling to the ground, Garen’s weight pinning Jarvan to the ground.

The two of them pant heavily, just staring at each other, their faces mere inches apart. Jarvan’s breath inflames Garen’s flesh, ignites a fire in him that will not be quelled, sends heat going straight down. It is only then that Garen remembers himself and notices the position they are in.

Garen’s knee is pressed between Jarvan’s open thighs. ( _He is your prince, your lord._ ) One hand pins Jarvan’s wrists above his head, while the other holds him up, prevents him from pressing his lips against his prince’s, from taking what he so desperately wants. ( _He is not yours,_ his mind supplies. _He will never be yours_.)

He should be afraid. Afraid of the consequences should someone walk in, afraid of what Jarvan will think when he finds out his shame. But he is not and that thought alone--the _idea_ that he has lost control--frightens him, makes him withdraw his hand and prepare to leave behind the love of his life for an eternity.

But when Garen loosens his grip on Jarvan’s wrists, Jarvan throws his arms around Garen’s neck, pulling him closer, _so close_ , closer than he ever dared hope for. Their lips meet and suddenly, Garen can’t think straight, can’t think of anything but the man beneath him, eagerly rutting against him.

Jarvan presses for more, tongue tracing his lips, pushing and pushing. Jarvan’s chest is warm against his own, solid and comforting. They pull away only for breath, and even then, only for mere seconds before they’re back on each other, years of pent up feelings spilling out in seconds.

For once, Garen allows himself to _want_ , and _oh_ , how he wants.

He draws away for a moment.

“Not here, not here,” he pants between breaths. Jarvan nods frantically at him and Garen gets himself to his feet, testing the feeling of standing on solid ground. He feels dizzy. Dizzy with desire and want, like all his prayers have been answered, like all his dreams have come true.

Their room is empty when they enter and Garen is thankful for it. He doesn’t know what he would do if their roommates saw Jarvan clinging to him, breathless and a complete mess. They should be out for a while, too busy celebrating their initiation as true Demacian soldiers. 

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Jarvan’s lips are back on his, demanding--always demanding. He presses forward until the backs of Garen’s knees hit the wooden bed frame and he’s pushed down into the mattress as Jarvan crawls onto his lap, ass flush against his hardness. 

Jarvan pulls away only for a moment as his fingers find the hem of Garen’s thin white shirt and pull it over his head. Then his lips find their way back to Garen’s while his hands wander the sculpted expanse of Garen’s chest.

Before he can stop himself, Garen’s hands find Jarvan’s hips, palms flat against the swell of his ass, feeling, _squeezing_ . The touch elicits a soft moan from his best friend’s lips and _gods_ , he is hard. He thrusts up unconsciously, desperate for friction, and Jarvan obliges him, grinding his ass against Garen’s cock.

“Stop,” Jarvan says, suddenly. His hands immediately fly off his person. “Off.”

Jarvan’s hands clutch the waistband of Garen’s pants, yanking it down before tossing it onto the floor. In mere moments, Jarvan’s lips are wrapped around his cock, plunging it into a sea of warmth. His tongue traces the head of his cock, teasing him and _teasing_ him, until he isn’t. His head pistons up and down the length of his cock and he can feel the back of his prince’s throat as he takes him completely in his mouth. He is _beautiful_ like this.

Before he knows it, Jarvan rises to his feet and strips off his clothing. Garen had seen him naked before; they trained together, changed together, showered together, like all the other recruits. There was no real notion of privacy in the Citadel.

And yet, it was never like this.

He stands there for a moment, just watching him with eyes darkened by lust, silent, worshipful. But then he’s moving again, searching for something in his dresser. Eventually, he pulls out a glass vial, filled with some sort of clear liquid.

Garen sits up now, curious.

The other man crawls onto the bed, next to Garen, popping open the vial with ease. He settles down on his hands and knees, chest pressed against the sheets and ass in the air. Garen watches, mesmerized as Jarvan coats his fingers in the slick and runs it against his entrance.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. He does it like it comes naturally, like he’s done this a million times before, and for a second, Garen wonders if he has. He wonders who else has seen his prince like this, head pressed to the mattress and asshole on display.

Soon enough, he presses a finger into his hole, the tip disappearing knuckle deep. He brings it in and out before another finds its way in beside it. Jarvan scissors his fingers inside himself, stretching it all for him. Garen can feel Jarvan’s eyes on him, the heat of his gaze only multiplying his want.

“Please,” he moans and the sound is so lewd, like liquid sin. “Please, Garen.”

The sound of his name on his lord’s tongue is what sends him over the edge. He takes the vial clenched in Jarvan’s hand and spills it onto his hands, coating his cock in the fluid.

“Turn over,” Garen demands. “I want to see you.”

He obeys in an instant, flipping over and pulling his knees back to reveal his wet, wanting hole.

“Gods, I’ve wanted this forever,” Garen breathes, eyes blown over with lust.

“Yeah?” Jarvan huffs, eyes flitting open.

“Yeah.” He lines up his cock against Jarvan’s entrance, blunt head teasing the rim. Jarvan moans.

“Well get on with it,” he whines. Garen only hums in response, pressing only the tip of his cock into his hole and pulling it out just as quick. “ _Garen_.”

“Hmm?” Jarvan’s straining against him now as he tries to push back against his length, but Garen only pulls back further, denying him gratification.

“ _Please_ , Garen.”

“Please what?”

“ _Fuck_ _me,_ ” he gasps, so he does. He plunges the entire length of his cock into his prince all at once and Jarvan lets out a noise he will remember for the rest of his weary days. His thrusts are hard and fast, erratic. Garen’s so overcome with _want_ , the desire to claim, to show the world that Jarvan is _his_ and his alone.

He leans in close, pressing hard kisses against Jarvan’s jaw, against his neck. When he gets to his collarbone, Garen bites to mark, to _claim_ , and the moan that escapes his prince’s lips make it all worth it. He briefly entertains the thought of someone else having this before him, this beautiful, beautiful man wrapped around his cock, but finds he doesn’t much care. 

Jarvan is his and his alone.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Jarvan moans. His hands are wrapped in Garen’s hair, holding him in place as he plants bite marks across his skin.

Finally, Garen draws away, eyes only on the man panting beneath him. He plants one hand beside his head, while the other wraps around Jarvan’s cock, pumping in tempo with his thrusts. It is so much, _too much_ , and he spills inside of him right as Jarvan’s cum coats his fingers.

They lie there for a while, Garen collapsed beside his best friend, covered in sweat and cum. 

Finally, Jarvan looks at him and says nothing. Just finds his hand and entwines their fingers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He rests his head on Garen’s chest and Garen swears his heart starts racing faster than it ever was before. 

“Promise you’ll wake me up before you go?” Garen whispers, hopeful. He doesn’t know how he would be able to handle it if he left without a goodbye.

“I promise,” Jarvan says and squeezes his hand. It is a vow, a solemn vow.

Then, they just stay there and just for tonight, Garen lets himself hope. Hope that he will see Jarvan again. Hope that he will always have a special place in his heart. Hopes that Jarvan doesn’t forget about him as he navigates the world of politics and diplomacy, or as he marries a suitable young woman.

“I love you,” Garen whispers into the night, when Jarvan’s breath has evened out and he is sure he has fallen asleep.

“I love you,” he whispers, as if the words will make him stay.

“I love you,” he says, and they are the last words Prince Jarvan hears before Garen falls into a dreamless sleep.

-

When he wakes up, Jarvan is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a bit ago and i couldn't + still can't write smut soo.. here it is.


End file.
